


chiaroscuro

by thinkatory



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempted Murder, Canon-Typical Violence, Captivity, Dissociation, F/F, Fans for Equality and Justice's Equality Auction, Knifeplay, Murder Family, Murder Husbands, Psychological Trauma, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:34:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28113210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkatory/pseuds/thinkatory
Summary: "Will you let me do it?"Abigail's eyes are steadily trained in the distance, as though she expects Bedelia to chide her. Bedelia hesitates only for a moment, to give Abigail the respect she deserves in this moment of vulnerability."Yes, Abigail," she repeats. "If we can, we will."Abigail's gaze is on her in an instant, frantic but surprised, but Bedelia is focused, gentle. "We," Abigail half-asks."We were transformed into monsters," Bedelia says smoothly, "against our wills. Perhaps we can redeem ourselves with one last monstrous act."After Bedelia helps Abigail escape Will and Hannibal's grasp, the two must find a way to end it once and for all. But can you really say you're making a choice when there's only one way forward?
Relationships: Bedelia Du Maurier/Abigail Hobbs, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	chiaroscuro

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cordialcount](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cordialcount/gifts).



> This is a pretty intense and maybe a little fucked-up piece, but based on our conversation I think that's probably going to be up your alley. Just shy of what I was hoping wordcount-wise, admittedly, but I figure you'd want a better piece with less padding, right?

The Venetian flat looks as though it was built directly from what Abigail imagines Hannibal's dreams look like. It's enough like the apartment she was trapped inside for months that this captivity feels just the same, maybe worse, maybe even less her choice.

Her hands are useless; her tongue only useful for shallow conversations and quick and barely witty responses to manipulations; her mind ravenously consumes books until she can't bear to look at a single page, printed or tablet.

She is what they want her to be. She sits, she begs, she plays dead. There is no way out. There is no way out but through.

Possibly the most irritating thing is the boredom. At least Will gets to kill. They won't risk their precious child at all, even if she's become nothing more than a shadow in the background of the glow of their brilliantly lit lives soaked in bright, pulsing red.

There's a piece of her carved out where a heart, a conscience, used to be. She can feel Marissa watching her, sometimes, in a mix of grief and judgment, as though from the grave she now knows Abigail never was what Marissa had tried to see in her. She's not bad; she's not good; she's nothing at all.

This is what they've all chosen for her.

There is no way out but through. Abigail shakes her head sharply, only at herself.

She can feel Will watching her from across the living room. "I want you to close your eyes," he says, from his chair, and he feels an ocean away. "Can you do that for me?"

Abigail remains still as she lies back on the couch, gaze ahead on her socked feet. "I want to make a deal. Can we do that instead of whatever psychoanalytical thing you're trying to pull on me right now?"

Will is quiet for a moment, eyes awkwardly askance. "You know why we're here. You know there's nowhere else to go."

"I don't believe that." She spares him a look, but he's steadily focused elsewhere. "You're too smart to not see a way out." He doesn't answer, so she presses on. "I think maybe you don't want a way out."

His face is drawn when he says, "I don't."

Abigail smiles, the faintest upturn of the corners of her mouth. "Good, we're being honest." She shifts a bit back on her elbows so she can keep looking at him more comfortably. "Will you let me kill myself?"

The answer is instant, Will visibly stunned. "No." Then: "Abigail – "

Abigail moves in a quick, fluid motion, her hand dug already into the couch cushion to seize the knife she'd hidden in the middle of the night, on her feet before Will can react to anything more than the flash of the knife swinging at him. He catches her wrist instinctively, still pressed back up against the chair, and she grunts to contain the screech her body wants to force out, pushing as hard as she can until it scrapes up against his face.

"Abigail," he whispers, panic etched into his face. "Please."

"You have a choice." She finally, _finally_ feels something. "Fucking make it."

He forces her back, onto her feet, and she stumbles back against the table and away. Abigail slashes at him and cuts him across the arm, back on him in a split second's time. He catches her wrist again and twists it away, and she cries out before she can stop herself, dropping the knife to the dark hardwood floor with a clatter.

"Do it." Abigail's crying, now, out of pure frustration. "Don't be a coward!"

"I'm not going to hurt you," Will says levelly, and catches her by the shoulders. "Please, sit down, let's talk about this before Hannibal gets back."

Abigail shoves him back, scrambles for the knife, and presses it into his hands before he can grab her by the shoulders. "If you don't do it, right now, I'm going to kill you both," she says, voice icy but shaky all at once. "So do it."

It comes out pained, with a wry half-laugh, his fingers loose on the knife. "I can't. I love you, Abigail."

She laughs, a harsh sound that hurts her throat, and takes his hand to tighten it around the knife. "This isn't what love is," she whispers. "I know it's what I get instead, always, but it's not love. If you loved me, you'd – "

"This is what we get," Will agrees, without much hesitation, tone Sahara dry. "But – I mean it. I'll never hurt you."

"Are you really that stupid?" She forces the knife against her stomach, even though he tries to twist it away. "Do you really think you're not hurting me, Will?" she manages.

"Abigail," Will tries, completely overwhelmed. "Please."

She releases a sound of pure frustration, takes the knife, and rams it into his chest in a sharp motion.

Will crumbles and falls as the door to the flat opens. Abigail remains still, even as Hannibal moves smoothly towards them, and kneels beside Will, running a hand against his face. Hannibal turns his gaze up to Abigail, who remains expressionless.

"I suggest you go draw." Hannibal doesn't even look troubled. "I'll manage this."

Abigail blinks away tears, and drops the knife to stalk away.

Nothing will change.

She seeks out the perfectly-sharpened pencils and perfectly thick paper, and begins to draw in sharp lines and vivid chiaroscuro, until the absurd scene is half-done and she feels Hannibal hovering behind her.

"Who is the victim?" he asks, calm, casual.

She can manage a smile, now. "Who do you think?"

Hannibal's smile in return is almost pleased, even as he turns away, but she doesn't jump to her feet and stab him in the neck with the pencil in a fit of rage. She touches where her ear once was, and the feelings roiling in her stomach nearly feel like satisfaction.

She goes back to drawing. The angles of the carving along the severed neck are beautiful.

_Abigail. Come back to me._

Abigail's eyes flicker open. Bedelia sits in the chair next to the plain bed in the Paris flat they've taken up. Venice was reality. Paris is reality. Everything is so completely and terribly real.

"Good morning," she says, and her smile is soft as she looks past Bedelia at the sharp penciled images pinned across the walls.

Bedelia's sigh is gentle as she stands.

"You should eat. There's some left for you."

Abigail climbs off of the bed, her head light, her heart playful, her mind toiling away in the dark.

* * *

There are no clues, to date, but Bedelia isn't as concerned as she could be. The odds that Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter will go unnoticed, or that they won't go out of their way to hunt her and Abigail down themselves and save the two women the trouble, are incredibly low.

Abigail is anxious, however, and Bedelia serves her up a plate in silence, allowing her the time to decide whether to speak or stew. As she visibly begins to stew, Bedelia speaks up. "Tell me," she says. "Tell me what's going on."

"This isn't what I came here to do." It's times like this that Bedelia has to purposely keep her gaze away from the still-visible scar across Abigail's neck, the mark of a trauma that was not her first but the one that fuels her to this day. The fury Abigail directs at Will and Hannibal is a misdirection, she's beginning to think; Abigail will forever be chasing revenge against anyone who wrongs her to satiate her anger at herself and her father. Bedelia trains her eyes on Abigail's mild expression. "I need to find them."

"Give it time," Bedelia suggests. "I believe they'll come to us."

Abigail's lips tighten before she goes on. "I want to have the element of surprise."

"We won't." Bedelia knows that. "They already know we're here, somewhere, trying to find them. You have to understand that."

"If we find them first," Abigail persists, "that can't be impossible, can it?"

She chews her bite of fish, then measures her words. "No. It's not impossible."

Abigail nods shortly, then takes a bite or two before speaking up again. "I have a plan."

Bedelia has her doubts, but is savvy enough not to voice them. "Go on."

"I'm going to gut Hannibal." She presses on without even a touch of fear of judgment in voicing it. "And I'm going to slit Will Graham's throat."

Bedelia contemplates that; it's less a plan than a fantasy, but they can explore it well enough. "Why?" she asks. "Why gut Hannibal, why cut Will's throat?"

"I want Hannibal to die slowly and painfully," Abigail says, and then her gaze goes down to her plate as she cuts another piece of fish. "And Will... he needs to know."

"He needs to know what?" she prompts simply enough.

"He needs to know what it feels like to die like an animal." Abigail's expression has frozen over, now. "Helpless, alone in the universe despite your every effort to mean something, slipping into darkness and shadow."

Bedelia nods along, thoughtful enough. "You want to teach him a lesson. You don't think he understands what the two of them have done to you."

"Hannibal will never feel guilt, even when he's dying." Her fork, fish caught in its tines, rests on the plate, untouched. "But Will should die in pain, emotionally and physically."

"As he deserves," Bedelia prompts. "Yes?"

Abigail looks pale, now. "I knew I couldn't trust him. But I did anyway. Just a little, but – it was enough."

Bedelia's smile is so faint it's barely there. "You think, for a time, because the monster stands before you, that it will protect you. But monsters don't protect. They take."

Abigail nods, the slightest incline of her head, and she takes her bite. "Bedelia?" she asks, voice softer.

"Yes, Abigail."

"Will you let me do it?" 

Abigail's eyes are steadily trained in the distance, as though she expects Bedelia to chide her. Bedelia hesitates only for a moment, to give Abigail the respect she deserves in this moment of vulnerability.

"Yes, Abigail," she repeats. "If we can, we will."

Abigail's gaze is on her in an instant, frantic but surprised, but Bedelia is focused, gentle. "We," Abigail half-asks.

"We were transformed into monsters," Bedelia says smoothly, "against our wills. Perhaps we can redeem ourselves with one last monstrous act."

Abigail's defenses are down, her panic clear, her fear drawing sharp lines in her face. "Do you think we'll die?"

Bedelia moves her finger along the edge of her plate in a thoughtful motion. "Do you care if you die?" she asks. "Do you have anything to live for?"

Abigail's voice, posture, face don't give away even the impression of concern or turmoil at the idea. "No."

It's not a surprise. "Do you want something to live for?"

Abigail exhales in a rush. "I can't think of anything I want that I could possibly get."

"You want to start over," Bedelia begins, and watches Abigail try to pull in normal breaths. "To be someone new."

Abigail's shaking her head immediately. "I can't. I'm too – I can't."

Bedelia's expression doesn't change. "What if I said I could help you?"

"And how would you help me?" The sarcasm is blatant. "Psychotherapy? No psychotherapy can even touch what's happened to me, you know that. You know what he did to us."

She has to phrase this just right. "We could live a quiet life," Bedelia says, gentle. "No one would need to know us. Without the slightest registering of our false names, just strangers in the marketplace and nothing more."

"Domestic life." Abigail's tone is pure acid. "You think I can be domesticated?"

"I'm going to ask you to try something." Bedelia stands, and takes her plate calmly to the kitchen nearby to clear what little food is left, and casually takes a knife from the block. She can feel Abigail's gaze hot on her, and the fingers of her free hand graze over Abigail's shoulders as she walks past.

"Are you coming?" Bedelia asks, lightly enough, and opens the door of her bedroom.

Abigail enters the bedroom just as Bedelia sets the knife on the bedside table. She stands silently as Bedelia begins to unbutton her blouse, and says nothing in protest or encouragement. As Bedelia lies down on the bed, Abigail moves to the bedside table to take the knife, and climbs on top of Bedelia, hips to hips, her mouth trembling.

"Go on." Bedelia's voice is soft to breaking.

It's all Abigail needs to hear. She runs the flat and just the barest part of the edge against one of Bedelia's breasts, again, again, then drags the edge along the curve of her breast before pressing down at long last and biting the blade into her skin. Bedelia feels her pulse race, but doesn't move as Abigail cuts once, twice, her breath ragged as she leaves mark after deep mark. The blade moves smoothly down her stomach, and Bedelia feels Abigail begin to grind her hips against hers as she cuts deeper into her belly, still shallow but sharp and angry pain along the wound.

"Oh," Bedelia breathes, and arches her hips against Abigail's; Abigail shudders and the knife clatters to the floor. Abigail yanks her own shirt over her head and her skirt up over her hips, Bedelia's hands over her bare and perfect skin, and Bedelia shifts her own skirt up just in time for Abigail's fingers to yank down her panties and pointedly shove her fingers into Bedelia's pussy without any forewarning.

Bedelia's fingers seek something to grip onto as she gasps at the harsh friction of Abigail's fingers inside of her, and she seizes into one of Abigail's breasts as well as her hair to pull her down into a series of sharp and biting kisses. She rolls against the action of Abigail's fingers until she's shuddering, close but not there, then Abigail bites into her lip and moves between her thighs to tongue her clit.

The cuts ache, but she's more aroused than she may have ever been in her life; Abigail's mouth is wet, soft, tight against her clit and pussy, and she holds out less than a minute before she comes in a rush, gasping.

Abigail pulls her fingers out of Bedelia and begins to grind against her thigh; Bedelia leans up to take Abigail's breast into her mouth, tonguing and nipping at her nipple, and Abigail moans, rubbing herself harder and more frantically until a groan bursts out of her and her back arches beautifully as she comes.

Bedelia watches as Abigail falls into a satisfied heap next to her and stares at the ceiling, and dares close her eyes for an instant. She gets only a moment of silence before Abigail speaks up, quiet but matter-of-fact.

"I want to do it again."

"No knife," Bedelia whispers. "Give me five minutes."

"Okay."

She is afraid. Fear has been her home for too long. Fear heightens all things, even this; maybe, she thinks, especially this.

She worships the teenage monster in her bed with her face and fingers between the girl's thighs, and makes her come twice before she finally begs for mercy.

* * *

Abigail shudders against the hardwood floor in the Venetian flat.

She knows this has to be a dream, but it doesn't matter, because her gut is cut wide open, blood gushing through her fine sweater onto the floor, and she groans. She squirms, and undoes the fly and zipper of her jeans, shoving her fingers into her panties. Will and Hannibal stand over her, simple shadows of themselves with bloodied knives in their hands, and she rubs her clit as pain overwhelms her.

Pleasure cuts through the pain, blends with it like the brush of charcoal into thick paper to turn lines into shadows, and she realizes it's not real – not even a dream, not even flesh and blood broken, but so many lines drawn by charcoal and pencil wielded so harshly they break. Even still, she arches against her own touch, the lines rippling, her face flushed with the lightest thumbed spread of charcoal until she comes in a rush.

In a horrible rush, she wakes next to Bedelia, and presses her eyes tightly closed so she won't scream. Instead, she shoves her fingers into her pussy and her hand against her mouth as she fucks herself until she has to bite into her fingers not to scream out her orgasm.

Bedelia doesn't wake up. Abigail sobs silently into her pillow, and says nothing in the morning.

* * *

Abigail disappears two days later.

Bedelia is patient enough; Abigail doesn't seem to have taken anything within her besides her coat, a purse, and a knife, so she has every expectation that Abigail will find her way back to the flat. Bedelia goes to the grocery and picks up some food for a hearty dinner, with the assumption that Abigail may need the physical boost after doing whatever she's currently up to.

The flat is quiet, but Bedelia can hear the noise of the street outside, so she turns on some Bach at a soft volume as she begins to cook dinner. The coq au vin is nearly finished when the door of the flat opens behind her. She doesn't turn to check. She doesn't have to.

"Bedelia," Abigail says, and her voice is forced steady.

Bedelia turns, then, and sees Abigail shed her coat to reveal blood spattered across her blouse. She doesn't allow her expression to change, and just gestures Abigail over to her.

"We can wash that out," Bedelia says, mild enough. "Are you going to tell me where you were?"

Abigail watches Bedelia continue to cook, apparently mesmerized by the motion of the pan, until Bedelia clears her throat. Abigail starts, then exhales. "I was trying to find them."

"I see." Bedelia turns the heat off from the stove. "What did you do?"

Abigail is on the defensive instantly. "Nothing I didn't need to do."

Bedelia begins to serve out the dish onto two plates. "This isn't an accusation," she clarifies. "I'm simply asking what you did today."

Abigail moves away from her, clearly still wary, and takes a seat at the table as Bedelia moves the plates across the room. "My contact was going to turn them in," she says, tone muted. "I couldn't let that happen."

Bedelia's fetched silverware, now, and takes her seat at last. "Did you kill him?" she asks, and her mind lightly plays through the lines of the Bach she knows so well still hovering in the background.

Abigail shakes her head. "I defended myself," she says, "but I'm sure he isn't dead. Just... frightened. He knows where he stands with me, now."

"What if he goes to the police?" Bedelia has no problem keeping this level, normal, not a panicked series of accusations.

"He won't. He said that Will and Hannibal know that he was tracking them, and he knows that I can find him, so he won't risk either of us coming after him unnecessarily. He won't bother any of us anymore."

Abigail's speaking with such certainty that Bedelia has to smile, with little joy. "Your private investigator could ruin us all," Bedelia makes clear, easy enough.

Abigail's response is whipcrack fast. "Not if I get to Will and Hannibal first."

Bedelia looks at Abigail for a long moment, until Abigail is looking back at her with the same sort of calculation, then finally Bedelia says it: "I want you to tell me why you want to hurt them so badly."

It's instantly upsetting to Abigail, but this conversation isn't meant to comfort her. "You know why," she snaps off.

"I know that you were held captive. What you've never told me is what happened during that captivity."

Abigail's mouth sets and her head twists away slightly. "They tried to make me into their daughter, then their pet, and I didn't care, because – I know I'm not my own person. I never have been."

Bedelia watches her. "You must have grown accustomed to that treatment." No response. "Why did you come with me? When I came to them?"

There's a long pause before Abigail says, "I wanted them to kill me. They wouldn't. No matter what I did."

Interesting. "Did you try to hurt them?"

"Even stabbing him wasn't enough." Abigail's cut herself a piece of chicken, but all she's doing is pushing it around the plate. "I tried to make one choice. Just one, kill them so they'd kill me."

"This is why you want revenge?" Bedelia checks, no judgment in her tone. "Because they wouldn't release you from captivity by death?"

"No one will release me." Abigail stabs her fork into the chicken and gestures with it. "You won't release me, either."

"I'm surprised that you're experiencing these feelings." Bedelia isn't surprised, however, at the sudden and stung reaction that gets. "You seem to have a strong will to survive."

Abigail shakes her head. "I just want to finish this. Whatever happens after that – doesn't matter. I've already told you that."

"After Will and Hannibal are dead," Bedelia goes on, thoughtful and without an ounce of open concern, "do you intend to kill yourself?"

"I haven't decided yet." Abigail meets her gaze pointedly. "Would you stop me?"

Bedelia remains steady. "I just wonder if there isn't a third way between pain and oblivion."

"You're just like them." Abigail's on edge, now, her grip on her knife something Bedelia decides to keep an eye on. "I'm your pet too, now, aren't I?"

"You're always free to go." That seems to genuinely surprise Abigail, but Bedelia means it, despite every effort she's currently putting into the girl right now. "Wherever you want to go. But I'm here to help you, at the moment."

"You're manipulating me." It's matter-of-fact, but a clear cover for her uncertainty. "You want it to seem like I'm choosing to stay here, but you don't want me to go, so you're..."

Bedelia gestures with her fork. "I don't want you to go," she says, "simply because I enjoy your company. But if you choose to go, I won't stop you."

"If I change, pack my things, and go," Abigail says, each word deeply pronounced, "you won't stop me?"

"No." Her smile is near-imperceptible. "Where would you go? If you could go anywhere? Once this is all finished."

Abigail's lip trembles for just a moment. "I have nowhere to go."

"That is never true." Bedelia takes a bite, and waits for a response, going on when Abigail remains silent and obviously angry. "There's always somewhere to go. That's how we live. We move forward."

"I don't move anywhere." Abigail's tone is a knife's edge, like her blade riding against the skin above Bedelia's heart. "I'm dragged behind someone. My entire life."

It's so teenage, in the most extreme way. "Where would you go, Abigail?"

Bedelia knows the answer on the tip of her tongue, and that the answer isn't a real answer: _home_. It's the answer Abigail's heart would demand, but her mind knows well enough that home was never safe, and that home no longer exists.

Instead, Abigail says, "You're right."

"About what?" Bedelia asks, placid and professional still.

"I get to choose. What happens after we do this."

Bedelia nods along with it, though it does feel like they're talking in circles. That's the way it is, sometimes, she supposes. "And have you decided yet, what you mean to do? Beyond what we've discussed."

Abigail barely pauses before she goes on. "Do you think there's any way to pry this out of me?"

It's a genuine question, and that surprises Bedelia a bit. "The death," she prompts. "The blood. Is that what you mean?" Abigail's nod is near-imperceptible, but Bedelia's watching for it. "Abigail, I think all you need is a sense of control over your surroundings. That doesn't necessarily mean you must continue hurting people as you have been. I think you need to baptize yourself in the blood of those two men and become a new person. A grown person, no longer a child or a pet living in the shadow of two selfish people who think they can own you."

Abigail doesn't seem to know what to do with that answer. "I don't know what that would look like."

"No one knows what a new life will look like until they've finished building it." Bedelia watches Abigail wrestle with the idea silently. "No one likes living with uncertainty. It doesn't mean that we must stew in our current situation simply because it's certain."

Abigail's mouth turns down into a frown. "You think I'm digging my heels in because I'm scared of the future?"

"At some level." Bedelia cuts in before Abigail can interject. "But, mostly, you need control. I'm trying to remind you that you have control. If you'd like to flee, now, forget about them, you have that choice. If you need to kill them and move on, become someone else, you have that choice. If you want to kill yourself to get away from these thoughts, you have that choice as well. But is suicide a choice or a surrender to the pain you've been given?"

"You think I'm weak," Abigail accuses, stung again.

"I think you're in pain," Bedelia says without missing a beat, and shakes her head in the slightest motion. "And you're letting that dictate what you do. If you're so frightened of yourself that you don't trust yourself not to cause more pain to others if you continue to live – that is a choice you can make. If you think it's possible to change what they've molded you into – that is also a choice you're free to make."

"Bedelia." Abigail's tone is half between a demand and a plea.

"I'm not psychoanalyzing you." Bedelia tries to catch her gaze. "I'm explaining things in an unbiased way. Do you understand?"

Abigail's voice shakes, now. "You're just trying to keep me alive. To trap me here."

"I know it's tempting to believe that." Bedelia gives up trying to meet Abigail's eyes. "But you know that if you chose to leave, I would respect that choice. Don't you?"

There's a long pause where both of them are still, then Abigail cuts into her chicken, gaze down, and eats silently. Bedelia accepts the moment, and begins to eat as well, drifting gently into the arc of the Bach piped through the flat.

Despite it all, Abigail cuts just deep enough into Bedelia's thighs that night, but blinks away tears as she goes.

* * *

Abigail disappears onto the streets.

She isn't hunting anyone, tonight. She's armed, but not with any target in mind to wound. The world around her doesn't feel real, hasn't felt real since she was dismissed like a child from class after ripping a hole into Will's chest, hasn't felt real since her father talked her into being a fly complicit at the end of a fishing line to pull back innocent girls, and she wants to at least attempt to understand what all the people who easily move through the world can feel. 

She thinks of Marissa as she goes, and ignores any eye contact. It's for the best not to engage with others. The only reason she can engage with Bedelia is that she's poisoned, too, her mind, words, and presence just as toxic as Abigail's.

Abigail takes a seat at a bench, her purse gathered into her lap, and makes herself look around. There's a couple at a cafe, drinking from their small French cups; the man with curly hair laughs and it spikes the air, breaking through the light buzz of the street, while the bearded man across from him smiles as though his world is as simple as this moment, and curves his hand around his lover's.

A memory jabs into her without warning – hovering outside the door of the homecoming dance in her half-priced brown-gold dress and flats; Pete Barker pushing, persisting, grabbing her just roughly enough to jostle her and kiss her on the mouth; her fist slamming into his face; the furious, humiliated look on his face as he called her an 'ugly bitch.' The looks she got the next day, week, month, from the people who thought they mattered so much more than her.

Has she been a shadow her entire life?

She watches the firm grip of the two men's hands, and tries to understand.

Will and Hannibal, she can understand. They are the same in a way that transcends any sort of shared interests and sexual attraction that bind couples like this together, sprung from the same darkness, monsters thrown from horrible depths like Venus to the shore to prowl the earth in search of prey. She understands that. It's the grip of her father's hand on hers as she drew the knife across the deer's belly. It's knowing yourself through someone else.

These people don't know each other, because there's nothing to know: no angry depths with rocks to impale you at the bottom if you throw yourself upon them, just the vaguest guilts and fears but so much control and restraint. They stop before they hurt someone. They play the moments they let slip out behind the back of their eyelids as they try to sleep at night.

She remembers that sort of feeling. It feels like a lifetime ago. She was always different, but she once couldn't resist the temptation of trying out shallow thoughts and shallow dreams. Now, for so long, she's drowned in the depths.

The couple pays for their coffee and leaves, and Abigail remains still, dizzy, hoping for some kind of clarity as the simplicity of their moment sinks in.

Is this all so much cynicism? Is she right about the world, or is she wrong? She knows there are monsters around, while the prey wander around freely as though they're safe, but is that the end-all, be-all of the world?

Will gutting her monsters make her a monster, or allow her to break through?

Too many questions. Abigail puts her head between her legs and tries to breathe.

She sees feet pass by her as she pulls in air, and the desire to lash out at this world she can't understand is nearly overwhelming.

It's time to go back home. She walks in a rush, on a horrible edge, and enters the flat in silence.

"Hello, Abigail," Bedelia offers mildly, not looking up from her book.

Abigail sinks into the chair across from her, gaze askance, no words forming in her head or on her tongue as the frustration freezes her in place in every possible way. The silence is comfortable for a moment, before Bedelia goes on. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

It's foreign to form words in the moment. "I think so."

"Good." The corner of Bedelia's mouth turns up. "Whatever brings you closer to a decision."

Abigail nods, a short gesture, and scratches her head. "I'm going to draw," she says, half a question.

Bedelia nods in return, and looks back down to her book. "Go on."

She takes out the sketchpad, perches in her chair, and scrawls out a pool of unknown depths, with creatures beneath waiting to pull the unsuspecting underneath.

She remembers stories of the anglerfish, with its lure of warmth and light, and sharp teeth upon the surrender to temptation. She draws one in sharp relief, and it means the world in that moment; Will the lamp trying to welcome her home, and Hannibal the teeth to rip into her mind.

* * *

The private investigator's laptop is really basic, kind of old, but Abigail doesn't care. What she wants is the files on it. She pores through the files, but his organizational system is a bit obscure, probably purposely for this kind of possibility. She frowns, and opens another folder, then another after that, until she finally sees a thumbnail that looks like Will's face.

Her heart leaps. Without hesitation, she opens the audio files into a playlist and nearly has to force herself to sit back in the chair and breathe.

 _Are you ready to do what must be done?_ Hannibal being Hannibal, Abigail supposes. _There is no way out but through, Will._

 _I'm doing everything you want._ Will's snappish; she can imagine his eyes flicking away in irritation, head twisting away. _It's not enough for you? I need to do this, too?_

Hannibal makes a sound Abigail can't quite hear. _I'm saying that what you did in Venice was unacceptable. I cannot lose you. I refuse to allow you to do that to yourself._

Will huffs. _I didn't do anything._

_Yes. That's precisely the problem._

Abigail feels watched in an abrupt rush, though she knows with at least some certainty that they aren't about to burst into the room with knives to cut her into pieces and serve her for dinner. If they wanted to do that, they would have already arrived. They know what she wants, and they know she's coming. Hannibal wants to end this as much as she does.

The recording is still going. _I'm telling you, I can't do it,_ Will is saying flatly. _So stop asking._

Hannibal doesn't sigh, but she can see the expression that means he's restraining it well enough in her mind. _And you will hate me if I do it for you._

 _No._ Will sounds pained. _I understand. I know you don't want me to die. I don't want to die, Hannibal._

Hannibal is silent for a moment. _You will not die, Will. We will find a way._

The audio cuts out. This had to be useless to the private investigator, but it's too much for Abigail. She keeps her breaths as normal as she can, and the audio shifts to the next file. She wonders, before she can stop herself, if she can handle this.

There is no way out but through.

 _Firenze, they call it,_ Hannibal muses to Will. _We shouldn't force our own names upon the places we go. Firenze is what this place is, in its heart. We should recognize it as itself._

 _I assume this means something grander,_ Will says, a touch sarcastic.

_I mean it is important to accept what one is and recognize what others are themselves. Don't you agree?_

Abigail opens a Notepad file and begins to take notes, her typing as shaky as her fingertips.

She has to focus.

_We are home, Will. We are family._

_Not yet,_ Will says, and Abigail's eyes burn in confusion and grief.

* * *

When Bedelia wakes up, she finds the spot next to her in the bed empty, and she moves into the flat to find Abigail pulling in panicked breath after breath, knee pulled to her chest, trembling. She stands a few feet away, and measures her response. "Abigail."

"I found them," Abigail blurts out, and her eyes meet Bedelia's. "I left, I used what the investigator found, I stayed up all night, I, anyway," she rattles off, "I know where they are."

Bedelia accepts that, tilts her head, and says without the slightest bit of suggestion, "What do you want to do?"

"I want to go." Abigail looks beyond strained, though. "I want to go, now."

There's no point lying, she supposes. "I'm not sure you're ready."

Abigail's visibly losing her grip. "What if they know I know? We have to hit them now."

That could be true. "Well, let's be smart about this." Bedelia gestures with her head. "What do we need?"

It's exactly what Abigail needed to hear; she's obviously snapped out of it, the wildness still in her eyes but at least not tinged with the same terror. "Let me pack."

Bedelia smiles, and moves aside to let Abigail fetch what they need and fit it into her sizable purse.

* * *

_His throat undulates against her wrist._

_His body convulses against her, but she doesn't stop. She doesn't stop. She doesn't thrill but she doesn't tremble; she doesn't feel power, nor fear; she feels nothing but the word **yes** , vibrating deep through her._

_There is no way back from here. ___

__Bedelia's fingers smooth Abigail's hair as she drives, an absent motion of vague comfort, and knows that Abigail doesn't register it at all._ _

__This is what Hannibal Lecter wants. Abigail is a pet at the end of a tug-of-war toy, teeth bared, holding tightly to the idea that she might be able to pull it away if only she fights hard enough and stares them in the eye. There is no other way forward than the one Hannibal trained them both to take. Bedelia must see this through._ _

__Survival was once her strongest drive. Now it's an afterthought. As long as she achieves her one, simple goal, the rest is irrelevant._ _

__"What do you want to do?" Abigail asks softly from beside her. "After?"_ _

__Bedelia's response is far past wry, calculated as anything she does. "I want to kiss their blood from your lips."_ _

__Abigail laughs, a short but pleased sound, and leans her head into Bedelia's touch._ _

* * *

__Will and Hannibal live in a house, now, in Florence. Bedelia has decided against the reasonably day-long trip and instead hired a plane; within two and a half hours they've arrived nearby. Bedelia pays the pilot extra, presumably for silence, and draws Abigail along to walk with a hand clasped around her elbow._ _

__"All we need is a car. I'll call for one."_ _

__"That seems like a paper trail," Abigail murmurs._ _

__Bedelia shakes her head, that tinge of a smile on her lips, and Abigail decides not to question it. They have to wait another twenty minutes for the car to arrive, by which time Abigail can barely pry her fingers off the strap of her purse from the awful anticipation. She just _wants_ , now, her thoughts as direct and bladed-sharp as a single-minded hunger to see this to its end, and it hurts to just chip away at the hunt when she can see it all play out in her mind's eye._ _

___Shh._ _ _

__Her father's hand is on her shoulder as they drive. She knows in her heart that no one is there, but every other part of her is drifting somewhere between past and present, a rifle that doesn't exist light and solid in her hands, but this time her prey is well aware she's in the distance. At first it's Marissa who flits before her mind, hunched and tensed in her direction, her stomach cut wide open as she wanders through the woods._ _

__She knows she has no choice but to fire. Everything is on the line, and Marissa was part of a life she was never meant to have._ _

__She can feel her father nod, and as her gaze flicks away from Marissa for a moment, it's Will and Hannibal below instead, engaged in mild conversation that she can't hear. Her anger spikes; they can't treat this as though it's nothing. This is the moment that will define their lives. How far will they go? Will they kill her, when they were all so desperate to save her?_ _

__Her fingers twitch in her lap, and she jerks awake._ _

__"It's time," Bedelia says from beside her, and turns off the car. It's an incredible relief she doesn't ask what Abigail was dreaming about. Abigail seizes her purse, sets her jaw to steady herself, then pulls herself out of the car, finally on as even a keel as can be expected as she turns to face the walk ahead of them._ _

__"How far is it?" she asks Bedelia._ _

__"Not far." Bedelia's fingers drift along her shoulder. "I wanted to make sure we could make it back here."_ _

__"Right." Abigail's response is hollow. Getting back to the car, fleeing back to Paris to pretend it all didn't happen, it all feels like a fantasy._ _

__Bedelia guides her along by a gentle touch on the wrist, and they go. "Do you trust me?" she asks, voice soft but not as gentle as her fingers._ _

__"I guess." Abigail can't muster an active tone. "Can I trust you?"_ _

__"In my professional opinion," Bedelia says, just slightly amused, "trust is necessary, but often not warranted."_ _

__She's not sure whether to be unimpressed or amused. "That's not a yes or a no."_ _

__The quietest laugh comes out of Bedelia's mouth. "You're right."_ _

__"So I can't?" Abigail isn't pulling away, though._ _

__"You can trust me to do certain things. You can't trust me to do others. That's the safest way to operate, Abigail."_ _

__There's only one important thing now. "I can trust you to pull the trigger?"_ _

__"You can trust me to do what needs to be done," Bedelia returns, and it's not an answer. Abigail's mouth tightens, and Bedelia's eyebrows go up. "Are you concerned I'm going to ruin this for you?"_ _

__"I don't know." It's not as though Abigail's mind is working as well as she might like. The house is in sight, now, just above them on the hill. "Are you ready?"_ _

__"I am." Bedelia stops Abigail and takes the gun from the purse. "Are you?"_ _

__"Yes," Abigail says, and it's the truest thing she's ever said. She pulls the knife from the purse, and thinks of Bedelia's skin breaking under its blade. She's well-trained for this, to punish, to feed this monster she's been cursed with beneath her skin._ _

__She owes Bedelia so much._ _

__"Stop." Bedelia turns to face her, a mild look of surprise on her face, then Abigail seizes Bedelia by the front of the shirt and kisses her on the mouth. Bedelia's expression is impossible to read after, but that's fine. "Let's go," Abigail says, and walks ahead. Her face feels cold, pale, but all she needs is the sharpened blade of the knife gripped loosely in her fist. Her mind rests along the edge even now._ _

___There,_ her father breathes into her ear, as she sees Will pass by a window, and her lips turn up into a smile._ _

__It's time._ _

* * *

__It is, quite honestly, too easy to slip into their cellar and move into the house, so Bedelia suspects that they've been effectively invited inside by a fully expectant Hannibal. That's fine, she supposes. This will play out as it was always meant to play out._ _

__She doesn't touch Abigail's arm as they move deeper into the home towards the only softly-lit room, not wanting to distract her even with the slightest comfort, then they hear Will speak: "So, what now?"_ _

__Hannibal's response is easy enough. "There is only one way to find out."_ _

__It doesn't bode well. Bedelia flicks the safety off of the gun and steps into the light, aiming squarely at Hannibal as she sees him. "Hello, Hannibal," she says, just as easy as Hannibal. "Will."_ _

__Abigail moves abruptly to her side, seeming vaguely upset that she didn't get the dramatic motion, and is completely still, somewhere beyond trembling. "I found you."_ _

__"Yes," Hannibal agrees, as though they are guests of honor who finally landed on their doorstep. Perhaps they are. "We're glad you did."_ _

__"No." Abigail's familiar fury is starting to arc upwards again, but Bedelia doesn't falter or comfort, not yet. "You don't get to turn this around. This isn't about you. This is where you die."_ _

__Hannibal looks mildly surprised. "We did this for you."_ _

__"You didn't do anything for me," Abigail retorts, openly disturbed at the implication. _Steady,_ Bedelia reminds herself. "I did this all myself. I found you."_ _

__Hannibal glances at Will. "We allowed you to go with Dr. Du Maurier so you could rejoin us on your own accord."_ _

__Now Abigail's shaking. No matter how calm Bedelia can keep herself, she thinks, this is not going well. " _Rejoin you_?"_ _

__"It's time," Will says, his tone typically on edge and gentle at once, his expression desperate. "We've missed you."_ _

__"That's enough." Bedelia has to cut in, to give Abigail the slightest break from the manipulation. "This is not a three-act play. This is an execution."_ _

__"Is it?" Hannibal turns on Bedelia, clearly interested in the very idea. "Do you have it in you to kill me?"_ _

__"Do you think I'm frightened?" Bedelia's expression doesn't change, her stomach barely churning. "I know you can and will kill me, if you get the chance. I am not afraid to kill you."_ _

__"I'm not sure that is true." Hannibal looks to Will, thoughtful and not the least bit threatened. "What do you think?"_ _

__"I don't want to die." Will may be the most honest of them right now. "There must be some middle ground."_ _

__"Abigail." Hannibal looks her in the face, a direct attack on her confidence, then Abigail's shaking her head firmly. "Please listen."_ _

__"You're just afraid to die," Abigail fires back, and gestures with the knife in a quick motion. "I don't care what you say. It's time. This all needs to end."_ _

__"You have always had the choice," Hannibal says, faux-gentle. "You have the choice now to put yourself at terrible misguided risk, or to mend this with us. I believe we all understand one another."_ _

__"Bedelia." Will's tone is soft. "Please put the gun down."_ _

__Abigail's mind is as ripped open and coming apart as a down pillow torn by force, the worst anxieties spilling out of her. "I never had a choice," she bites out. "You _let me go_. You pretended I – you _let me go_."_ _

__"We thought it was for the best for you and Bedelia to spend some time together," Hannibal confirms. "Once we knew what she meant to do to us, we thought the two of you could learn something from each other."_ _

__"Such as?" Bedelia asks, her fingers still tensed on the gun. "That there is no way out?"_ _

__Hannibal doesn't look the slightest bit concerned that he might be shot. "There is always a way out."_ _

__"If I kill myself, I did it because you gave me no choice." Abigail's voice comes out in a shudder, now. "I did it because it was the only way out, and when something's your only way out it's not a choice."_ _

__"Don't," Will says instantly, and he looks genuinely anguished when Bedelia spares him a glance. "Abigail, please don't."_ _

__Will, somehow, is the worst part of this, Bedelia realizes, because Abigail explodes. "Will, are you fucking kidding me? What am I supposed to do?"_ _

__"Come back." Hannibal's so matter-of-fact that Bedelia wants to fire into his shoulder, his gut, his heart, anything, to see some real expression from him. It's not the right time, yet; she'll know when. "We can take care of you. Of both of you, if you will have us."_ _

__"Bedelia." Abigail's nearly pleading, and Bedelia takes the moment to train her gun on Will, now, advancing a few steps forward. Hannibal moves without hesitation between them, and Bedelia in turn doesn't hesitate to train the gun between Hannibal's eyes, now close enough to spatter his brains across Will's face with a single shot._ _

__"What will it take?" Hannibal asks, soft. "What will satisfy your thirst for revenge?"_ _

__"What do you think, Abigail?" Bedelia speaks up, unintimidated. "What is your pound of flesh?"_ _

__Abigail's silent behind her, and Bedelia almost reiterates the statement before Abigail responds. "A pound of flesh."_ _

__"What?" Will looks pale behind Hannibal._ _

__"A pound of flesh," Abigail repeats. "Let me have a piece of him and I'll let this go."_ _

__Hannibal's smile is nearly imperceptible, but Bedelia knows it by now. "Whose flesh?" he asks._ _

__"Yours," Abigail says, mild now, apparently calm at the concept. "You know that."_ _

__"Hannibal." Will's the one pleading, now, because it's beyond clear that this moment is real, as solid as the sharpened edge of Abigail's knife. "Please, stop this."_ _

__Hannibal's ignoring him. "What would you like?" he asks Abigail, professional, as though working out a treatment plan. "Something fatal? Or is that not the point?"_ _

__Abigail's beside Bedelia, now, and her gaze is soft but sharp as she catches Bedelia's eye. "Whatever will make you hurt," she says to Hannibal, then._ _

__Bedelia lowers the gun. "I'll handle Will," she tells Abigail, calm as possible. "You get what you need."_ _

__"No." Will cuts in beside Hannibal, his anxiety the most vivid thing in the room. "This is insane. We can talk this out. There has to be a way."_ _

__"This is the only way." Hannibal gestures with his head to Abigail. "Come. There's a more comfortable place to do this."_ _

__"You'll let me make a mess?" Abigail asks, conversational._ _

__

__Hannibal's just as easy, now, despite Will's growing panic beside him. "No. Will must live here after I am gone."_ _

__"Hannibal," Will snaps off, and Bedelia knows her job in the moment; she moves between him and Hannibal, pressing him back two steps. "Bedelia, you can't let this happen," he demands._ _

__Bedelia is nowhere near shook. "I've let worse happen."_ _

__Within a few minutes, Hannibal has arranged a comfortable spot with plastic sheeting and shed his shirt. Will is shaking as Bedelia holds the gun in steady hands, but he's finally stopped protesting, even as Abigail leans over a resting Hannibal with her knife._ _

__"Are you ready?" Abigail asks._ _

__Hannibal's smile is only the slightest upturn of his lips. "Anything, for you."_ _

__Abigail presses the knife into his side, and Bedelia feels a rush of arousal despite herself at the look on Abigail's face and the memory of the blade into her skin. She presses deeper than she's ever cut into Bedelia's skin, though, and begins to carve into Hannibal. Hannibal's breaths come shaky, but he doesn't make a single sound. Will's the one who starts to choke out sounds, and takes two steps towards Hannibal before Bedelia clears her throat lightly and he rubs his eyes pointedly._ _

__Blood is seeping against the plastic sheeting, now, as Abigail rounds the edge of her project. Hannibal breathes as slowly as he can, and murmurs, "Are you – "_ _

__"No," Abigail snaps off, soft, yet, but in the most control Bedelia has ever seen her._ _

__Hannibal watches her, instead, his expression as mild as someone being potentially murdered could possibly be, and Bedelia isn't even sure she hates him, though she knows she should. It's complicated. She's not stupid, she's frightened of him, of what he could still do. He seems immortal, unkillable despite the fact that he bleeds. It's not quite respect – he might be genteel, but he's an animal, something Bedelia would never suggest of herself – but it is understanding, of some kind._ _

__Someone who would allow this to happen to them is someone to fear. A person who withstands great pain to control someone else is someone to be feared. Even now, Hannibal is in control._ _

__Finally Hannibal makes a sound, the faintest groan, and Will sobs, just once. The square Abigail is hacking out of Hannibal's side is dark red, pulsing with blood, and she notes no organs are in the way, just muscle. It might kill Hannibal, but not quickly, whether Abigail realizes that or not._ _

__Hannibal makes another troubled sound, his gaze askance from Abigail now, and Bedelia makes a sound that's barely a laugh at the idea that _Hannibal Lecter_ is light-headed. Abigail looks as though she's transcended something, and Bedelia's heart soars for a moment before she focuses back on Will, who's rubbing tears out of his eyes frantically._ _

__"That's enough," Will demands. "Abigail, you've made your point."_ _

__Then, she pries it out. The hole in Hannibal's side is dark, gushing, and it feels too pointed a metaphor for what Hannibal does and always has done to everyone 'important' in his life – carve out a weak point, but not enough to kill, not with any sort of merciful quickness. Abigail stands, then drifts away with the piece of flesh in one hand and the knife in the other, moving past Bedelia bloodied and blank._ _

__Will rushes to Hannibal's side, buries his face in his shoulder, covered in blood within that simple of a moment, then fumbles his phone from his pocket. Bedelia's hand lowers the gun to her side, but she does nothing, says nothing, just watches, wondering if there is any chance Hannibal Lecter can die._ _

__"What are you doing?" Will shouts at Bedelia, a painfully drawn wreck. "Find her! Bring her back!"_ _

__"No." Bedelia feels herself smile, her fingers loose on the gun, now._ _

__"It'll be okay," Will is whispering to Hannibal, then rattles off some terribly-pronounced Italian to the person on the other line of the phone. Bedelia wonders, light-headed herself, what she's meant to do now._ _

__There's no way out but through. She leaves from the front door of the house, and makes her way back to the car. There's no sign of Abigail. Silently, she turns on the car, and waits, her fingers light on the steering wheel._ _

__The sky is darkening at the horizon, the shadows of trees carved out against the landscape like sharp grey lines carved out by pencils soon to be broken by the pressure against them, the winter light so vivid but pale against the shadows that it takes Bedelia's breath away. Abigail's drawings will haunt her mind forever, a constant reminder of this time._ _

__The emergency vehicle comes along soon. She only drives away, into the dark, once they've taken Hannibal away._ _

__She knows he will live. She knows Abigail will live. She knows this is the closest to freedom she will ever be._ _

__For some reason, as she puts the gun back into her bedside drawer in Paris, Bedelia's heart is light._ _

* * *

__Abigail isn't sure what the river is called, but it's big, and deep, and it serves her purposes._ _

__She sinks herself into the water just far enough to wash herself off, steadily ignoring the cold. There isn't much blood on her face, but a lot on her arms and hands and clothes. It would be anticlimactic to die of hypothermia, she thinks, but nothing comes to mind as for what's next._ _

__She's left Bedelia behind, and she doesn't know why. Everything is surreal, every person she's seen as she walked drawn in absurd relief like people in the background of a piece of art, never meant to be as real as the subjects, just afterthoughts or an indication that a shallow world exists outside of the one at the center of the work._ _

__Hannibal hasn't died. She knows that. She's not free, she knows that, too. But she's proven she'll do anything, and that's what matters._ _

__The cold is too much, stronger than anything she's ever felt, and she's only the slightest bit conscious when they pull her from the river._ _

* * *

__"It is always good to see our patients reunited with their loved ones," Doctor Fontana tells the men across the desk from him. "I think we have things to discuss before we move forward with discharge, however."_ _

__The man in the fine clothes wears a faint smile. "Go on."_ _

__Fontana opens a folder and spreads out pieces of paper, penciled with an inch of their lives. The men look over them, the finely-dressed man mildly contemplating the absurd but detailed scenes expressed more than the plainly-dressed man beside him, and tilts his head._ _

__"She has a vivid imagination."_ _

__"What is it that you see?" the doctor persists._ _

__"Shadows," the plainly-dressed man speaks up, his face pale, rightfully worried. "She feels like a shadow."_ _

__"We must make her feel like a person again," the finely-dressed man says, with a light breath of relief, and Fontana, at long last, feels some comfort at the love these two obviously feel for the girl. "We must take her home."_ _

__"We would like her to return here for outpatient treatment," the doctor clarifies. "We will provide a schedule at the desk. But you are more than welcome to take her home."_ _

__The finely-dressed man smiles, and his hand gently curves around his partner's where it rests on his thigh._ _

__"We will do everything we can for her, Doctor."_ _

__When they're reunited, there are none of the usual hugs or kisses, simply knowing smiles exchanged and a light touch to the girl's side as they usher her out of the ward._ _

* * *

__"What now?" Abigail murmurs to Will, in the backseat of the car._ _

__Will touches her hand, a hesitant gesture, and curls his fingers around hers._ _

__"Things are going to change, Abigail. I promise."_ _

__Her eyes flick to Hannibal as he drives in silence, and Will repeats himself. "I promise."_ _

__"Okay," Abigail whispers, and takes his hand._ _

__Monsters take. Monsters take their toll in blood. It doesn't matter what she's become as long as she's become._ _

__In her mind, she can see herself drawn in color, Hannibal's blood dark red and sticky against her clothes and her arms even long washed away by the Arno and the forced shower in the hospital. It will never wash away, the mark of a monster._ _

__What horrible shadow might she cast?_ _

__The path is clear, lit, warm, no matter how many bodies are scattered in its wake. The way is clear. Bedelia is gone, free in her own way, and it'll sting until Abigail trains herself to feel nothing. She will never have a home; none of them will. They exist only in the moment of proven mortality as light leaves the eyes of the dying and the feast hits the table, their family painted in shades so intense the colors would howl from the canvas._ _


End file.
